The Inherent Fallacy of a Slippery Slope
by Keelywolfe
Summary: It was the ice that was to blame for it all, John knew that for certain. Just took a small patch of it, one, to change the tone of John's life. SLASH. John/Sherlock


**Title**: The Inherent Fallacy of a Slippery Slope  
**Author:** Keelywolfe  
**Fandom:** Sherlock BBC**  
****Pairing(s):** Sherlock/John  
**Spoilers:** Through 'Scandal In Belgravia'  
**Word Count:** 7000

**Summary:** It was the ice that was to blame for it all, John knew that for certain. Just took a small patch of it, one, to change the tone of John's life.

**Warnings:** None

* * *

Sherlock could say what he would about Scotland Yard, and he did, often, in meticulously cruel detail, but they were hardly as idiotic as Sherlock would have people believe. People being John. Not that he didn't know not to trust Sherlock's highly biased opinion on the intelligence of others; that had been a lesson learned within five minutes of meeting the man and confirmed within ten.

Still, there were times John needed a stiff reminder that while Sherlock was a consulting detective, Lestrade and his kind were paid ones and they weren't all that shabby at it, either.

It was the ice that was to blame for it all, John knew that for certain. Just took a small patch of it, one, to change the tone of John's life.

It had been snowing on and off for the better part of twelve hours by the time John found himself standing on a closed-off street in the dead of night while Sherlock examined a body sprawled messily across the ground. The air was clouded with the chilled breath of the dozen officers milling around, all of them a healthy distance away. Perhaps to keep away from the battered remains, more likely to keep away from Sherlock.

A young woman, what was left of her, had staggered out into the street and had unfortunately timed it for the same moment a tourist bus was passing. Not a great unsolved mystery but it was a bit of one. She had no medical condition, was on the surface happy with her life and certainly not suicidal. According to witnesses, she'd been acting strangely, as though she'd taken sick, before her ill-fated journey into the same path as a fast moving bus.

Sherlock was taking his bloody time on this one, walking around the body, muttering under his breath in fogged blurts. It prickled John's curiosity and he took a step closer, just one, and managed to find that single patch of ice to slip on. The rubber heel of his shoe lost purchase and John skidded, arms windmilling as he tried not to fall.

Before he could either catch his balance or land on the ground, there was a strong hand in small of his back, another on his arm, steadying him.

"Careful," Sherlock murmured too close to his ear and his breath was a brief rush of warm in the frigid air.

"Ta," John said, weakly, the rush of adrenaline still thudding in his ears like a heartbeat. Sherlock's gloved hand on his bicep gave a firm squeeze and then he was gone, back to crouching in front of the body. John crammed his hands deeper into his pockets and tried not to shiver, glancing around almost absently then he did double glance at the looks on the faces around them and groaned. No matter what Sherlock thought Scotland Yard was not composed of idiots and even from a bit of a distance, from their expressions, from Lestrade's raised eyebrow to Donovan's expansive roll of the eyes, every one of them now knew that he and Sherlock were shagging like rabbits.

Lovely.

Not that he minded, God, no, it wasn't like that at all. But it wasn't something he had the desire to put out an advertisement about either.

The snow was starting to fall again, great puffy flakes that dusted down on them, catching in his eyelashes. John blinked them away, scrubbing the back of his hand over his eyes and his brief, dismal wish that he hadn't forgotten his gloves faded when he looked back at Sherlock.

There were scattered flecks of snow in his hair, bright against the glossy curls, and drifting down to coat his shoulders. He crouched over the gory body sprawled across the asphalt, the police floodlights washing over him and just then, he was so bloody gorgeous that John had to catch his breath. The slender line of his shoulders beneath the cut of his coat, the flex of his legs as he leaned forward, that exquisitely brilliant mind utterly focused on the puzzle before him.

John sighed wearily at his own sentimentality; Sherlock would be horrified, accuse John of being as awful as those crap shows on the daytime telly.

Sherlock bent his head down, studying something intently through his magnifier and as he did, one fat flake of snow settle on the pale, smooth line of exposed skin at the back of his neck. As John watched, Sherlock twitched, turning up the collar of his coat and what would John give to have been able to kiss that melting speck away, press his mouth against that soft skin and taste the bland wetness mingled with the salt taste of skin.

And chance would be a fine thing, snogging on Sherlock in the middle of a crime scene and not just because he doubted Sherlock would even notice him. Scotland Yard might think they were spending their nights making the mattress creak but truth be told, it was nothing of the sort.

Christ, but John _wanted_it to be true. Once he got past the idea that he and Sherlock…that they were actually…well. Once he'd gotten past the very fact that he wanted Sherlock like that there was nothing to stop him from wanting everything from him. Or at least everything Sherlock had been willing to give and John was fine with that, he was, it was all good. Except for the little fact that he hadn't gone to bed with aching balls so often in his life. It was rather like being a teenager again; the two of them necking on the couch until they were both shaking and hard, John trembling with the effort to pull back, to not plead for more than he thought Sherlock was willing to offer yet. Two weeks of this and John had managed to jerk off every night but one, and that was only because last night he'd come in his trousers instead.

The memory of Sherlock on top of him, pressed in close, the hard line of his own erection against John's hip while John had only been able to offer gaspy apologies. Christ, but those lips, his eyes bright and wide, flushed and lovely and…John reeled his thoughts back in with a snort. And that was quite a bit to be thinking on in the cold at arse o'clock in the morning, John thought with wry weariness. Sherlock might enjoy poncing about solving mysteries. John, on the other hand, preferred to do his investigating at a proper hour. If he'd wanted a life without sleep, he would have gone into Obstetrics.

But again, Sherlock was Sherlock, and if John had wanted normal, he wouldn't have moved into the flat to begin with.

A click of heels on the pavement drew John's attention to Sargent Donovan's approach. She at least seemed unaffected by the cold, dressed in thin slacks and a long coat.

"Bit stymied on this one, are we, freak?" Donovan asked archly as she crouched down next to him. "If you're done playing at being helpful, we professionals would like a chance to do our jobs for once."

Sherlock spared her a quick glance, his magnifier clicking shut in his hand before he leaned in closer to the body, inspecting the woman's wrist with gloved fingers. "Your knees have been remarkably well groomed lately and Anderson's mood seems fouler than usual. Trouble in paradise?"

"You'd know about knees, wouldn't you. Unless…?" She raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and then glanced at John, who only frowned. "Oh, like that is it. I'm sorry to hear that Dr Watson." She stood, deliberately dusting off her slacks and paused as she walked past John. "If you get tired of living without, I know a perfectly nice bloke down in Forensics who's single. Quite sure _he_knows what to do when he's on his knees."

John kept his mouth closed, biting his tongue to keep from saying one of the dozen things that rose up. One of the rules of engagement with Donovan was that John stayed out of it. Sherlock had informed him of it on no uncertain terms the one time John had protested her preferred form of address for Sherlock. It seemed that he and Donovan had blanket permission from Lestrade to say whatever the liked to each other so long as they never asked him to play mediator. Normally, the two of them played the game with a vicious sort of relish, with Sherlock winning more often than not.

This did not seem to be one of those times. Sherlock had none of the visible ticks that he was upset that others might. No tightening of the lips, no flush to his cheeks or an indignant, indrawn breath.

The only clue, the only indication he gave, was his silence and John bit the tip of his tongue harder, tasting a faint iron tang of blood. Not allowed to snipe at her, those were the rules, and never mind that Sherlock generally earned every insult Donovan offered. And perhaps it was just as well John stayed out of it because if he could, John could've told her that her petty nastiness to Sherlock was indicative to her own bitterness and jealousy that Sherlock was better at her job than she was. He could have pointed out that her ill-mannered behaviour towards a specialist that her own lead inspector had called in was hardly a wise career move.

He might have even told her on no uncertain terms that she was a right twat and probably the only reason she hated Sherlock so much was that she hadn't been able to get him into her knickers like the rest of the police squad.

But the rules were clear and John said nothing.

Lestrade chose that moment to stride up, "All right, you've had a full five minutes now, give me what you've got and let's get this wrapped up. Can't keep the street closed forever, can we."

"She was poisoned," Sherlock said shortly. In one smooth motion, he slid to his feet, dusting the snow off his coat with broad, impatient sweeps.

"Poisoned?" Lestrade parroted, brow furrowed.

"Her bracelet is made of rosary peas," Sherlock gestured to the glistening red beads that circled her wrist. "Seeds from the _Abrus precatorius_plant. Highly toxic but often used in jewellery-making overseas. The peas themselves have indications of wear but the thread they're on is new." He pointed at a reddened mark on her index finger. "She broke the original string and restrung them herself and pricked her finger in the process. Accidental poisoning. She stepped into traffic when it started affecting her."

"Poisoned by her bracelet," Lestrade muttered, "That's one for the record books. Do you think…Sherlock…hey, now...!" he sputtered as Sherlock strode abruptly away, ignoring his protests as he walked past John, towards the milling crowd of lookie-loos on the other side of the police tape. John was quick to follow lest he have to pay for his own cab, tagging along at Sherlock's heels with a wry sense of playing little brother. Not that he could imagine Sherlock ever trailing along behind Mycroft and his mates; some notions simply weren't worth entertaining.

Out of his many skills, Sherlock's ability to quickly get a taxi had to be one of the more useful and John crowded in after him, happy to be out of the cold as Sherlock gave the cabbie their address. In a moment they were on their way, headlights cutting through the snowy night. Sherlock has his arms crossed tightly over his chest, hands buried beneath his arms as though he were fighting off a chill. Silent as he stared out the window.

Ah, shit.

"Bit simple that one, wasn't it," John asked softly, testing the waters. With Sherlock, it was more like dipping a toe into the Rubicon.

Nothing. Not a rant on the tedium, not on Lestrade's dimness for dragging them out to such a boring case. Not even a quick lecture on the nature of poisons. Sherlock kept his eyes on the scenery blurring past the window and John settled into his seat, bracing himself for a long night.

Not all silences with Sherlock heralded bad news. There were times, many times, when he was simply so wrapped up in his thoughts that there were no words to be said and those were the times Sherlock had a tendency not to notice John vacating the premises. Strolling through the corridors of his 'mind palace', so to speak, did not require idle conversation.

It was when he wasn't lost in mind, eyes closed as he floated on a stream of thought and nicotine, that his silence was troubling. It was those times when John felt the urge to keep his eyes on Sherlock at all times, to not let him out of his sight, to rifle through his sock drawer and under his bed in the cut slit into the bottom of his box spring, searching for drugs Sherlock would never admit to having.

Tonight, Sherlock seemed willing to play along to John's fears, if not by speaking then at least by staying in the kitchen as John set out cups for tea while waiting for the kettle to heat. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him and wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to see as Sherlock did. What did Sherlock see in the tilt of his head as he checked the pot, in the flex of his hands as he took out the box of tea, the sugar bowl. Brilliant as John found it, he could hardly think about having to deal with it himself and figured it was a small wonder that Sherlock wasn't insane.

John wasn't keen to think on that either and after a moment, he tried to break the lingering silence again. "She really bothered you, didn't she. What she said."

No reply, not that John expected one. Steam was pouring from the kettle spout and John rescued it, poured the boiling water over the tea bags to let them steep. Sherlock preferred loose tea and normally John would cater to that taste. Tonight though, he was tired and still felt chilled, and all he wanted was a hot cuppa and then bed. Whether or not he wanted someone in that bed with him, well, that was the problem still at hand, now wasn't it.

"Look, it's all right, what we've been…what we've been doing. I'm good with it. You know that, right?" John kept his hands busy making tea, ignoring the weight of Sherlock's gaze as he doctored Sherlock's cup. He always took his tea with plenty of sugar and milk, like a child playing grown up. That thought was a bit awkward right now, as there was nothing childish about their conversation, one-sided or not. "I'm fine with taking this as slow as you want. I know you haven't done much of this before. I don't expect you to do things that make you uncomfortable."

"John." He heard Sherlock moving and startled, teaspoon clattering against the side of the cup, at the soft, wet touch of his mouth against the back of his neck. Warm hands touched his sides, sliding around his waist and John sighed, let his head drop down until his chin touched his chest to allow Sherlock better access. His lips were warm, slightly chapped from hours spent out in the chill night air. He drew them down John's neck, the line of his spine. Let his lips part and the tip of his tongue was a slick touch, leaving behind a trail of spit to cool against his skin. "I'm not uncomfortable."

"Right, right, of course not," John mumbled, tipping his head to the side. "I just want you to know it's all good, it's fine. We can go slow and Donovan can go fuck off. This is between us and—" John's words stuttered as Sherlock's mouth moved down beneath his jaw, sliding upward.

"John," Sherlock's breath was hot, moist against his ear, followed again by the press of his tongue. "I'm _not_uncomfortable."

"All right, then," John whispered, inanely. "All right, that's all right."

It was true that Sherlock had very little experience to draw on but then, he'd never committed cold-blooded murder and he was an expert at drawing conclusions about that. Everything else was just window-dressing and Sherlock was encasing him like a drape, arms around him, mouth against him, the slim, hard line of his body pressing against him.

John realized he was still holding a teaspoon and let it go, dimly heard the clatter against the saucer as he grabbed the edge of the counter and braced himself. It was deeply undignified, he supposed, to be bent over the edge of a kitchen counter with Sherlock's hips pressed right against his backside. Tight enough against him that he could feel the firm length of his cock in the small of his back, tall bastard that Sherlock was. John found he really didn't care much about dignity right now.

He had had more adventurous sex in his life, he supposed, when he'd been younger. Secretive little adventures in cloak rooms and darkened corners. Once, he'd been in the back of a cab with a girl whose name he'd barely known then and didn't recall at all now, the two of them drunk enough that making out had devolved into hands in clothes, buttons and buckles undone as they panted together.

She'd tasted like sherbert lemons and smelled like an ashtray, had pert little breasts with coffee-coloured nipples that had bounced lightly when she tugged his pants down until she could get his cock into her mouth. John had sprawled back into the seat and set one hand in her long, blond curls, pushed between those lipstick-smeared lips and the cabbie hadn't said a word to stop them.

He'd been a young bloke, young as John, and their eyes had met in the rear view mirror, dark eyes on John's, flicking between them and the street. Until John had to close his eyes and push up into that sweet little mouth, coming in a burst of drunken pleasure.

The cabbie hadn't said anything more than the fare when they finally pulled up to the curb by her flat and he'd taken John's money with long, dark fingers. One of them had trailed against the back of John's hand and it was only with years and sobriety that John understood the hint in it. He wouldn't have taken the bloke up on it, not then. Might have been able to let him down a little gentler than simply turning away and following the staggering sway of hips up the stairs, though.

Sherlock smelled a great deal better than that cab had, his hand on John's chin smelled like chips and vinegar, the one that he'd stolen from John's paper cone hours ago still tainting his skin. Beneath that, on the inside of his wrist, was clean skin, the faint spice of the soap Sherlock used. Plain, simple smells but being with Sherlock on any given day was an adventure. John could stand a little bit of ordinary in his sex.

Not that this was anything so bland. Sherlock's fingers were as clever as his mind and one might be splayed on John's face, tipping his head back into the wet glide of his tongue against the curve John's ear. The other was low on John's belly, pressing insistently until John obeyed the pressure and tipped his hips back, settling Sherlock more firmly against his arse. No point in getting indignant about it now, was there, and John was willing enough. Christ, but he was willing.

The heel of Sherlock's hand against his cock through his trousers was a startling bit of loveliness and John moaned as Sherlock pressed a finger into his mouth, one stroking against John's tongue. He bit down gently, licked at the musician's callus on the fingertip. The pressure on his cock lightened, ignoring the desperate lurch of John's hips towards it, until two fingers returned. The very tips of Sherlock's thumb and forefinger found the head of his cock through his trousers precisely, dragging down, and John had to steady himself against the counter as his knees attempted to buckle.

He almost bit down when Sherlock let him go completely, his teeth scraping over Sherlock's knuckle as he drew his finger free. Instead, John found himself turned around, the tea set shoved precariously aside with a rattling clatter.

"Hey, don't—" John nearly shouted as Sherlock suddenly lifted him, setting him to sit on the edge of the counter and humiliation threatened, his face heating. He wasn't that bloody short, thank you, only it was difficult to protest when Sherlock had wrapped both arms around John's waist and buried his face into his lap.

John settled for threading his fingers into that silky cap of hair, wound the curls into tight bands around his knuckles and held on. Sherlock didn't protest his grip, only set his teeth against John's prick, the pressure dulled through his trousers into something glorious.

"Oh, Christ," John hissed out between grit teeth, spreading his legs wider to give Sherlock more room. He took every offered centimetre of space, crowding against John, the denim turning dark beneath his mouth as he sucked and bit. Offering a promise that John wanted so desperately for him to keep.

His fingers didn't seem nearly so clever now, stumbling over the fly of John's trousers like a common person. Working the button loose, drawing down the zip until John could breathe again. He felt Sherlock smile against his stomach, his breath damp as he murmured, "Seems like you forgot your pants this time."

John sucked on his lower lip, fancied he could still taste Sherlock's fingers. "More like hopeful I wouldn't need them."

A hum of approval tickled against him, making John fight a squirm. The urge vaporized as Sherlock's mouth slid lower, his chin bumping John's cock awkwardly. A hand circled the base quickly, steadying and John sighed his approval. Oh, that was lovely, long, slim fingers wrapped around him, stroking with marked uncertainty.

"John," Sherlock whispered, the first touch of his lips had John inhaling sharply, resisting the urge to push up into the promise they invited. "I'm not uncomfortable."

John stared down at Sherlock's hand around him, his neatly manicured nails against the length of his cock, at his mouth, the obvious marks on his lower lip where he'd been biting it. He touched Sherlock's lower lip with his smallest finger, reluctant to let go of the softness of his hair, exhaled slowly when Sherlock licked it. He didn't stop, carrying on past John's finger to his own and Christ, licking between those long, pale fingers, his tongue slippery against John's cock. His mouth hot as he drew path up to the tip and opened, tipped his head back just enough to let John press inside.

Watched himself slide between those soft lips, the faint flutter of Sherlock's lashes, the flare of his nostrils as he inhaled frantically, trying to keep up with John. He had to watch, couldn't help it, pretty, yes, Christ, Sherlock was a staggeringly lovely man, but also, he couldn't trust Sherlock to tell him if it was too much. Stubborn bastard wouldn't protest if his jaw was about to unhinge.

He'd taken half the length before his breath took on a panicked edge and John tightened his grip in those sleek curls, forcing him to stop. "There, that's good," he sighed. "That's good, fuck, your mouth is hot. Fuck…can…can you suck? Just a little, just…just…ah, Sherlock…"

Garbled words flowing out of him and Sherlock's hand at the base of his cock went sweet-tight when John pushed up, one tiny rock of his hips. Hesitantly, the pressure around him increased, rising force as Sherlock sucked him with growing determination.

"That's it, pretty boy," John murmured, "You suck cock better than you think."

From beneath his hands Sherlock's eyes flared open before they narrowed disagreeably, glaring up at John. He offered a sly smile back, tightened his grip in Sherlock's hair and for good measure, wrapped one leg around his shoulders, holding him in tight.

"What's the matter, they call you that in those posh little boys schools you went to?" John teased. "Pretty boy, pretty, pretty…ah, you shit!"

Sherlock had inordinately sharp teeth, John decided irritably, although his tongue was perfectly clever, soothing over the bite. Some tightness in him seemed to ease along with it, draining out, letting his mouth open wider and his cheeks hollowed as he sucked hard, working him with systematic precision.

"Yeah, that's it," John sighed, tipping his head back against the cupboards. He gently tugged one hand free of Sherlock's tangled hair, petting distractedly as Sherlock moaned against him, the vibration shivering through him. "That's it…Christ, your mouth…fuck…ah…do that…ah…!"

Obligingly, Sherlock swallowed against him again, taking him deeper yet, the sleek curl of his tongue over the head made John thrash with a helpless gasp, his heel clattering loudly against the cabinet as he struggled against shoving up into the tight clasp of that pretty, tight mouth. "Jesus! Where did you…"

And promptly regretted asking when Sherlock pulled off, looking up at him with sulky, wet lips and heavy eyes. "The internet is remarkably informative in this area. Do you like—"

"Yes!" John snarled, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. The cold air was prickling against his wet skin uncomfortably. "Yes, it was perfect and you're a right bastard, you shit!"

"Language," Sherlock murmured, dipping his head again, the touch of his mouth moving lovingly over him, taking him in abruptly deep as John choked off words, thought falling to the wayside as Sherlock swallowed him down. Pulled back enough to lap at the tip with that clever little tongue and then back down. It was like he'd abandoned any pretence of hesitancy and where this eager, sensual creature had come from, John wasn't certain. All he knew was that he didn't care. Not so long as Sherlock was licking and swallowing him down, his mouth all silky heat and pressure.

Talking, right, talking was not a bad thing, not when the heat in his balls was rising, hot pleasure spiking up his spine and John tugged feebly on Sherlock's hair, "Sherlock…uh…I'm close…" Hot, sweet suction was the only response, Sherlock's mouth bruisingly perfect and John bit his lip, knees jerking in tight against Sherlock's shoulders. "No…I mean…"John moaned, trying to remember how to talk, how to remember anything but flex and curl of Sherlock's tongue against him. He forced words out desperately, "I mean…I'm going to come, right now, right, Jesus, Sherlock!"

Hot ecstasy flooded through him and John gave in, fingers clenching tight against Sherlock's head even as he tried desperately not to hold him down, giving him a chance to back out. He felt Sherlock startled, his mouth going slack as John jerked and cursed and came, slick bursts against his suddenly still tongue, until John could only slump back on the counter top, his clothes clinging sweatily to him and his breaths came in harsh sobs. Dimly, he felt Sherlock pull back, slipping from between those soft, swollen lips but not before Sherlock swallowed hesitantly around him, little soft pulses against too sensitive skin.

"Oh, fuck me," John groaned. He felt wrecked, the backs of his thighs aching where the pressed against the counter, little tremors still running through him. Sprawled out with Sherlock still between his legs and John forced his eyes open enough to peer blearily down at him.

His gaze caught on that mouth first, lips a little puffy, reddened and he might have lingered there if Sherlock hadn't swallowed again, the bob of his adam's apple a neat distraction. Instead, John looked up a little higher and met pale eyes with his own. Sherlock was blinking too much, his eyes too wide and it made him look almost disturbingly young. He ruined it just as quickly, wetting his lips before he murmured roughly, "As agreeable as I am to fucking you, you look like you might need a moment."

John tipped his head back and laughed, honestly past caring at the shrill edge to it as he tugged his trousers closed and shook his head wearily. "Maybe three or four moments. Christ…"

Sherlock slipped to his feet with a grace that John didn't have time to envy, his hands cool against John's face, forcing him to stillness. Holding him as Sherlock pressed their mouths together, sliding his tongue between John's lips to share a faintly salty kiss. Of course sex with Sherlock would be like this, John thought wryly, curling his arms around slim shoulders and hauling himself up a little straighter, enough to let their mouths meet a little easier.

Gentle slick kisses turned into something fiercer, their mouths meeting with harsh force and Sherlock was crowding between his legs again, the fly of his trousers uncomfortable against John's stomach. He pulled away, breathlessly, diving in to bite at John's ear fiercely before he whispered sharply into it, "I'd like to see how pretty you are on your knees."

John made a sound in his throat, a tiny noise of protest; he was hardly what one would call pretty in any context. Sharp teeth beneath his chin silenced him, biting down his throat, marking him, and probably John should stop him unless he wanted to be wearing high-collared shirts for the next week. Instead, he threaded his fingers back into Sherlock's sweaty curls and held him there, begging him wordlessly to bite harder.

It was only when Sherlock pulled back enough to admire his work that John swallowed, husking out, "I'm game if you are…but not here. I'm a little old to be doing this on a bloody countertop."

"All right," Sherlock whispered, being reasonable for once in his life. He stepped back, tugging John down and then catching him when his knees buckled and nearly spilled him to the floor. His smirk was entirely too pleased and John ignored the gloating light in his eyes, snatching up his hand and dragging him out to the sofa. Sherlock came with almost mocking obedience, folding down to sit on the end as John snagged a cushion to kneel on. He settled on it comfortably and any casual taunting from Sherlock vanished in the spread of his legs, long and slim, sprawled out on either side of John. His hands were already at his belt, tugging it open when John caught one and stilled it.

"Eager, are we?" John murmured, pulling it to his mouth and pressing a kiss into the palm.

Sherlock's answer startled him, one tart, sharp word. "Yes."

Instead of replying, John hummed against his palm, licking a stripe of wetness up it to his fingertips. He heard Sherlock's breath catch as he pulled one into his mouth, sucking the slim digit as it curled against his tongue.

"This…this isn't what I meant, John." The strain in that deep voice made John sigh, closing his mouth around that one finger, dragging his mouth down around it. Swirling his tongue against the sensitive tip, stroking it with deliberate rhythm, play-acting against it. Sherlock took a sharp breath, let it hiss out between his gritted teeth.

"Do you need a map?" Sherlock snapped out, trying to tug his finger free. John let it go, skittering wetly against his lower lip before Sherlock settled his hand on the sofa cushion in a fist, glaring hotly down at John. He smirked up at Sherlock unrepentantly.

"I may not have done my internet research but I think my personal investigations will come in handy—" John said, draping himself over Sherlock's lap lazily.

"Don't talk about that!" Sherlock cut in with glass-sharp fury, a flush rising in his face and John raised a mental eyebrow. Quite jealous, check and mate.

"How about I stop talking for a bit?" John said quietly, working his hand into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, finishing the job on his belt. The skin he bared was pale and nearly hairless, only one fine line trailing down from his belly button and John pressed a kiss against it, following it down. Slim fingers ventured into his hair, no surprise there, hesitant against him. John reached up and pressed, firming Sherlock's grip even as he slipped lower, gently tugging his silky fabric of his pants out of the way.

"Go on, then," John murmured, his mouth already felt tight as he guided Sherlock's cock upward and wrapped his lips around the tip.

Sherlock jerked as if hit with a jolt of electricity, his hands going tight against John's head and he obediently followed them, taking Sherlock in as deeply as he could, working his tongue against the hot length until it bumped against the back of his throat. This was the easy part, John had done this much before, although those times had been flavoured with bitter beer and no small amount of fear, quick, desperate little couplings in hot, desert-dry corners with his uniform trousers around his knees.

This was…this was better, the sound Sherlock made burst out of him in a whimpering cry, his hands strong as he cradled John's head between them and pushed upward, sliding between John's lips in short, jerky little movements. The technique was the same, careful of his teeth, sucking firmly with each inward thrust and lightening as he withdrew. Nothing about it should have John trembling, one hand gripping Sherlock's wrist, not to stop him just to hang on.

Gripping Sherlock as tightly as Sherlock was him, fingertips digging into the fragile skin at his wrist.

"J-john..John…" Sherlock stuttered on his name, his voice and hands shaky and he arched up in a last, shuddery thrust, a low groan scraping out through his teeth as he came. Swallowing against the hot bursts on the back of his tongue, the warm, faintly bitter taste familiar. John dimly wondered why he'd been expecting Sherlock to taste differently, wondered if he would be pleased or horrified to know that he didn't.

He rocked back on his heels, letting Sherlock slip from his mouth with a last soft kiss, and rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand. When he looked up again, Sherlock was looking at him through narrowed eyes, his gaze disturbingly thoughtful for a man who'd just had what John hoped was a fairly decent bit of head. After a moment he held out a hand, the faintest tremor visible in it and John took it without hesitation, let Sherlock pull him up, shifting them, arranging them until they were both on the sofa, John settled against him, his head resting on Sherlock's chest. Listening to the weary, rough sound of Sherlock's breathing.

It was strange to feel Sherlock stroking his back as though John were some peculiar, new form of pet, but it felt too good to stop, John's eyes drifting closed, the thud of the heartbeat beneath his ear as lulling as the tide.

"You do look pretty like that," Sherlock murmured against the top of his head. It took too long for the words to register and by the time John would have pulled away to scowl at him, Sherlock had firmed his grip, wrapping both legs around the backs of John's knees and holding him tightly.

"I do need to breathe, Sherlock," John reminded him sleepily.

"You can breathe," Sherlock's whisper was far too awake for John's tastes. It would be easy to drift off like this and just pretend all was well. Only, John knew from long experience that waking up tomorrow without getting things straightened out only made it more difficult to go back. Right now with the scent of their sex still in the air was a better time by half than in cold morning light.

"Sherlock?" John kept his voice soft, "I have to ask. Are you all right with all this?"

He felt Sherlock draw in a slow breath, let it out a bit as he replied with equal quietness, "I've been wanting this for some time, John."

The admission surprised him, and John tried to look up at him, not quite dedicated enough to it to pull away from the lulling stroke of Sherlock's fingers. "You have?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock murmured, in that tone of his that said clearly, _obviously_. "I just didn't want to rush you."

That woke John a bit. He pulled back enough to look disbelieving into Sherlock's placid face, "Didn't want to rush _me_? But you—you're the one who-"

"John, you're two weeks from leaving behind your strict adherence to heterosexuality in long-term relationships, I didn't want to press," Sherlock frowned a little, "But you really are going to have to find a way to restrain your lustful thoughts about me when we're at crime scenes."

"What—lustful thoughts!" John yelped indignantly. He was starting to feel like a blasted parrot, mimicking words back.

"You were staring at me when I was examining the body, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, and you wet your lips twice despite the cold," Sherlock explained patiently, "Really, it was quite distracting. I can't see explaining to Lestrade that my observations are being interrupted by your blatant arousal."

"But, Donovan," John hesitated, not entirely certain he wanted to reopen that can of worms. He decided that curling in closer to rest his chin on Sherlock's chest might ease it a little. "You weren't upset by what she said?"

"Oh, her," Sherlock gave an exaggerated eye roll. "I shouldn't wonder that her Forensic man is single, you can tell by the way he chews on his pencil that he's miserable at oral sex. I wasn't upset-"

"You were upset," John interrupted. "You may observe the world but I observe you and I can tell when you're upset."

"I wasn't upset," Sherlock insisted and to John's astonishment, his cheeks flushed a ruddy pink. "She'd simply started me thinking about knees and you were staring at me, and I was…distracted."

"Distracted," John repeated, with a little smirk. "I think I get it now."

Sherlock firmly pulled John's head back down to his chest. "If you'd like to make it up to me, you could always post on your blog that I'm quite brilliant at _everything_I do."

"No, I couldn't." Really no.

Trust Sherlock to argue the point. "Of course you could, your computer is right on the table."

"My sister reads my blog. No."

"Maybe I could simply offer a demonstration in the application of excellence in oral sex before we head off to the crime scene next time," Sherlock suggested. There was something to the breathiness in his tone that made John think the idea was more than just an idle whim.

Showing up at a crime scene, still sweaty beneath his clothes and sticky at the crotch, Sherlock with that mouth of his reddened and faintly swollen…it really was a disgrace how John's own breath caught at the idea.

"Think we can manage that," John said and buried his face into Sherlock's in a vain attempt to disguise the sudden strangled note in it. His head bounced lightly as Sherlock chuckled.

"Get some sleep, John," Sherlock whispered it into his hair, followed it with a soft kiss and John finally decided to obey, burrowing into the warmth Sherlock's arms offered, utterly comfortable for the first time tonight.

-finis-


End file.
